


risking enchantment

by bluebeholder



Series: One and the Same [14]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: Anders Being an Asshole, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Broody Fenris (Dragon Age), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Introspection, M/M, Mentions of Slavery, Reluctant Revolutionary Fenris, getting some real mileage out of that tag, they're both oblivious sometimes and that's okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25000321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: Late summer, 9:37 DragonBeing in love is all well and good for Anders and Fenris, but new resentment has built up for both of them of late. Assumptions and angry words provoke an argument. As a result, both of them have some soul-searching to do.
Relationships: Anders/Fenris (Dragon Age)
Series: One and the Same [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654444
Comments: 14
Kudos: 49





	risking enchantment

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the brief reminders of where we are in the series. For people reading this in quick succession, I know it may be a little tedious, but I want to make sure that everyone (including myself XD) are on the same sheet of music as this story progresses.
> 
> “It’s time for you to look inward and start asking yourself the big question: who are _you_ and what do _you_ want?”  
> —Uncle Iroh

After a few weeks of hard travel, through the Green Dales and over the drenched Telleri swamps—where, despite rumor among the Antivans and chatter among the mages, Fenris saw neither hide nor hair of any Witch of the Wilds—they’ve finally reached easy travel on the roads of central Antiva. Though it’s still forested, the roads are drier and better-worn than the ones through the swamps. They’ve cut toward the coast, with intent to resupply in the towns and villages outside Treviso. All told, though they’re bedraggled, still a bit muddy, and lost an ox to the swamps on one _dreadful_ day, the whole company is in high spirits.

They’re on their way north to Rivain. Through Anders’ contacts and through the contacts of their mercenary Ornek, they’d learned of an abandoned castle in Rivain which could be suitable for a ragged group of apostates to use as a stronghold. Now, their twenty-odd refugees and five mercenaries follow Anders across Thedas in the hopes of reaching some kind of safety.

Lately, Fenris feels a bit of an accessory to the whole thing. Really, this is Anders’ journey. _He’s_ the leader. Fenris merely works. He makes sure that they don’t lose mages to brigands or monsters on the road. He sets the night watch rotations, negotiates with town guards and suspicious farmers, and ensures good conduct among the mercenaries. He helped pull their carts and oxen through the swampland, being more physically fit than many of the mages. He carries tired children when they can’t walk anymore and the oxen can’t take another burden.

Still, it’s to Anders that the mages look when they are in need of inspiration and guidance.

Fenris isn’t sure why he’s discontented with that. He puts it aside. After all, he is here because he cares for Anders and wishes to keep him alive, not because he particularly believes in Anders’ cause.

And if that last conviction wavers every time Fenris hears one of the children sobbing with nightmares about the Circle or catches a disturbingly serene conversation between the Tranquil mages about their treatment by Templars, well…Fenris has always been good at pushing aside his doubts.

Tonight they make their camp at the base of a rocky defile out of sight of the main road, shaded by plentiful trees, where the light of their campfires won’t be easily spotted. Fenris does his usual evening headcount as tents are put up and fires started for dinner. All eight of their oxen are present, along with the milk cow, Arnfried and his helpers taking them a little way away to graze for the night. Binet is under one of the carts, examining an axle that may have cracked earlier in the day. Everyone who should be putting up tents is hard at work, there’s a bustle around the cooking fires, and Ornek is giving the orders of the night to the other four mercenaries. Assured that everyone is accounted for, Fenris turns his hand to putting up the tent he shares with Anders.

Dinner is a good one, especially after the time in the swamp with the persistent rain and wood that wouldn’t light without magical intervention. Shana took the opportunity to hunt earlier in the day and brought down a peccary, a pig-like creature native to Antiva. Combined with cornmeal journey-cake and the “wineberries” Barbigia recognized and had convinced the children to help pick earlier in the day, it’s a more than decent meal.

Fenris, as usual, takes the next-to-last watch of the night. Not only is it the most undesirable watch and one he doesn’t wish to inflict on others, it allows him to fall asleep next to Anders. By the time he gets to the tent after checking in with their night guards, he finds Anders already there. He has the small lantern lit and a journal on his lap, writing quickly. Libertas, out of her basket for the evening, curls up at his side, a small gray purring lump.

“I _continue_ to prefer this to the swamps,” Fenris says, sitting down and starting to strip off his armor. He reaches out and scratches Libertas between the ears, eliciting a loud mew. “What plans are you making tonight, then?”

Anders closes the journal quickly. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with,” he says. He sets the journal aside on his pack.

Fenris stares at him for a moment. “What is this about?”

“You…wouldn’t appreciate what I’m working on,” Anders says, glancing away. “I know you don’t want to be involved more than you must.”

The words sting. “I’m here with you, helping your mages,” Fenris says sharply. “Does that count for nothing, then?”

“I’m more grateful than I can say,” Anders says. He sighs, rubbing his face. “I just…don’t want to fight with you about this, all right?”

“You presume much,” Fenris says. “I would like to know.”

“No, you wouldn’t,” Anders says, turning a suddenly-hard look on Fenris. “The Mage Underground is doing more than just breaking mages from the Circles, but you _wouldn’t_ like what it’s doing.”

“So you don’t even mention it,” Fenris says. He folds his arms. “ _Of course._ ”

“I am _trying_ to be courteous,” Anders snaps.

Fenris scowls. “It would be more courtesy to _ask me_ if I want to keep following you without having any true idea of your aims.”

“Are you saying you’d _leave_ —”

“I am not saying I’ll abandon you if you choose not to talk to me. I _am_ saying that I deserve to know what I am participating in.”

Anders shrugs. “You never wanted to know in Kirkwall,” he says. He stops, clamping his mouth shut as if to stop himself saying anything else.

The silence that falls is _loaded_. Fenris isn’t sure what that’s even supposed to mean, but he is reasonably sure that Anders didn’t mean it kindly. He feels his lyrium brands flicker involuntarily.

“Would you care to explain that?” Fenris asks slowly.

“You followed Hawke without question in Kirkwall,” Anders says. “I never heard you ask why we went where we went. You just…followed.”

Fenris _glares_. “I saw no need to ask,” he says. “We all know my trust in Hawke was misplaced, but I _did_ trust her.”

“That’s _fine_ ,” Anders says, heat in his voice now, “but after years of that, you have to forgive me for thinking you’d be perfectly all right with just following me, as long as I didn’t involve you in anything too terrible.”

“Vishante kaffas, mage, I am not a _dog_!” Fenris growls. “I did not think that after all this time you _still_ thought that way of me.”

“I _don’t_ think of you that way. You’re just—you’ve never shown any interest in leading this.”

“I am showing interest _now_.”

Anders glowers. “Why bother, when you’ll just fight with me? You’ve made it clear from the start that your only interest in all this is in protecting mages in need, nothing more. You told me when we left Kirkwall that you thought that doing anything else was wrong and you haven’t exactly said anything to contradict that since.”

“And what if I changed my mind?” Fenris bites out.

“I’ll believe _that_ when I see it. Face it, Fenris, you’re just following because you don’t know how to do anything else.”

The words hit like a bolt of lightning to the face.

“Maker,” Anders says, staring at Fenris in horror, “I’m _sorry_ , I didn’t mean—”

“Stop. Just _stop_.”

Anders stops.

Fenris doesn’t know what to say. He can’t even summon up anger, just a spreading sense of desolation that makes his eyes sting and his hands shake. The only thing he can think to do is push his way out of the tent and walk away into the darkness. The canvas flutters shut behind him, fragile and firm as a door.

His feet carry him to the edge of the camp. There’s a reasonably smooth path up the defile to the top of the low cliff, and with both moons full and high tonight, it’s easy to see his way up to the top. No one notices him go, which he thinks bitterly is just as well.

At the top of the cliff Fenris stops. He’s tempted to keep going, but there’s nowhere to retreat to and good sense tells him that he _will_ be missed in the morning, no matter how he feels now. With a heavy sigh, Fenris sits down on a wide, flat rock, the stone cold beneath his feet. He draws his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them, and stares off across the dark landscape.

In Kirkwall, this was the time when he would have drunk himself into a stupor to attempt to throw off the discomfort. But he hasn’t had a real drink for months, not since leaving Kirkwall. It leaves Fenris in the company of his thoughts, going around and around in his head.

_You don’t know how to do anything else._

“He is not wrong,” Fenris whispers to himself.

Nothing Anders had said, biting and cruel though it was, could be said to be untrue. Fenris _had_ spent six years living in a crumbling mansion alone. His only friends had been acquired because of Hawke, and he had not sought to make more. He had not gone out and tried to improve his state. He isn’t self-delusional: occasional jobs for Aveline and solitary trips out to fight slavers on the Wounded Coast don’t count. They were amusements, diversions from an empty stretch of silence and solitude he’d had no desire to break.

In matters of the heart, too, Fenris had waited. He had never, for many reasons, tried to pursue Anders. Most of their encounters had been driven by Anders. Fenris had claimed to himself that it was a matter of self-restraint, but he suddenly suspects that it was _more_ than that.

Even in the matter of Danarius, Fenris had never decided to set out for Minrathous to hunt the man down. He had not laid traps or battle plans for when Danarius inevitably came for him. He had asked Varric and Aveline to make his correspondence and keep watch for him, and they had been kind and done as he asked. But Fenris had been content to wait on their pleasure, to follow their lead. To let Danarius set the terms of their encounter.

His departure from Kirkwall, likewise, had happened because of the actions of others, not any desire of his own. If Anders hadn’t destroyed the Chantry, if Hawke had not revealed her true colors, Fenris would have remained in Kirkwall in the same state as before, even with Danarius dead. And in leaving, Fenris had not chosen any new course or set a path for himself. He had fallen right in line with Anders, unthinking of his own wants.

Indeed…thinking on it now, Fenris had never even _considered_ that he might want something else.

“What a fool I’ve been.”

Fenris looks up at the sky. The stars spin slowly above him, constellations he doesn’t know how to name. Merrill would know, Merrill with her flighty words and her unwise magic and her head full of surprising wisdom. As frustrating as she could be, some part of Fenris had admired Merrill. She was not of the alienage, but gave her time there all the same, to the protection of people not her own. Even if she used magic that made Fenris want to climb out of his own skin, he had to admit her quiet brilliance and her dedication to her causes.

Yes, all of his companions had causes. Aveline her life as Guard Captain, Varric his writing, Sebastian his family and life in the Chantry. Isabela was her own special case. Her cause was mostly in dreams of the sea and future plunder, dreams which she never _quite_ seemed ready to take up. Yet at least she’d _had_ dreams. Fenris…hadn’t.

He sighs and plants his forehead on his drawn-up knees, willing the thoughts away.

A soft, cool breeze stirs the trees around and ruffles Fenris’ hair, like the touch of a ghost. He hears a nightmarishly familiar voice in his mind:

_Temet nosce, Hadriana!_

A bitter, slightly hysterical laugh threatens to bubble out of Fenris’ chest. How many times had he stood behind Danarius as he observed Hadriana exhibiting her magical prowess, too sure of herself, only to be scolded that she did not understand her own power? Temet nosce— _know thyself_. A command in the mouth of a magister to understand one’s limits and the boundaries of one’s station.

In the mouth of a free man, it can perhaps be kinder.

“Temet nosce, Fenris,” he mutters to himself, banging his forehead lightly against his knees a few times. The lyrium dots on his forehead sting, but he ignores them.

Here is what he knows: that for all the hurt he intended to cause with his words, Anders was _right_. Fenris does not know how to do more than follow.

“But I _want_ to know,” Fenris whispers.

This is a small want. It isn’t a grand plan. It’s not like Anders’ revolution or Hawke’s rise to power.

It can be a start.

He spends the night sleeping in the back of one of the carts, wrapped in one of the canvas sheets that cover their goods in travel. Fenris will speak to Anders, but he would prefer not to do it tonight. For all that the wagon is hard and the night is a little chill, Fenris sleeps surprisingly soundly.

In the morning, though he’s a little weary after the late thoughts and unfortunate watch shift, Fenris returns to his tent with a good heart before almost anyone else is awake. He pushes into the tent without pause and stops just inside, letting the flap fall shut. “Anders?”

Anders looks utterly disconsolate, hair falling around his face, though he’s dressed, sitting on the ground with Libertas on his lap. “I’m sorry,” he says, looking up at Fenris with tired eyes. “You didn’t deserve me saying…what I said.”

“No,” Fenris agrees, sitting down cross-legged in front of Anders, “but I thought about it.”

“Came to the conclusion that I’m an utter jackass, I hope?”

“Yes,” Fenris says. He holds out a hand, palm up, and after a moment Anders takes it. “I also came to the conclusion that you were right.”

“You _what_.”

Fenris looks at their joined hands and sighs. He feels a little shame creeping in, but doesn’t let it stop him from speaking. “I do not know how to lead or how to want things. And I wish to change that.”

Anders squeezes his hand lightly. “It’s not easy,” he says softly. “Where are you starting?”

“With the mages,” Fenris says, looking up and meeting Anders’ eyes. “I do not understand myself well enough, I think, to make grand plans of my own. _Yet._ But I have come to care for the people we guard, and I would see them safe, even if it requires more than merely walking beside them.”

“Are you saying you’d fight the Chantry for them?” Anders says, a teasing curve to his mouth.

“Yes,” Fenris says. “I would.”

“I know you think…”

Fenris clears his throat. Anders pauses. “You do _not_ know what I think,” Fenris says. “I have begun to understand why what you did may have been…necessary. What you did…it would be no different than my setting fire to the Circle of Magi in Minrathous. A symbolic act. A demonstration of discontent and the need for change. I do not have to _like_ it, but…”

“It’s good enough for me,” Anders says softly.

For a moment, they sit in silence. Finally, Fenris says, “I want to work _beside_ you, Anders.”

“You already do more than your fair share of work,” Anders says, looking shamefaced. “I never thanked you for any of it. I…took you for granted, I suppose.”

Fenris lifts Anders’ hand to his lips and kisses the back of it lightly. “We will start again, then.”

“We do that alarmingly often, Fenris.”

Outside, the sounds of the waking camp are growing louder. “And I am willing to continue doing that, until we find ourselves on equal ground,” Fenris says. He rises to his feet, pulling Anders with him. “Now come, amatus. Our road awaits.”

**Author's Note:**

> The “wineberry” referenced is a real berry from Chile, called the maqui by the Mapuche people. It grows in roughly the climate zone that, as far as I can tell, most of Antiva sits in. It’s increasingly (and unfortunately, because now it’s being overharvested) popular as a dietary supplement.


End file.
